Next of Kin Oregon Series Part 3
by FraidyCat
Summary: For anyone out there who's ever had a brother…
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Next of Kin. Part 3, Oregon series**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Genre: Drama, Angst; This time I mean it.**

**Time line: 6 mos. from Last Time**

**Summary: For anyone out there who has ever had a brother…**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em – but wanna cuddle 'em.**

**Chapter 1**

The three Eppes men argued over the call.

"Whaddya mean, out? You're not even looking at the screen half the time, Charlie!"

Charlie quickly placed his lap top on the table in front of him. "I have to enter this data. _You're_ the one who asked me to do this! Besides, Dad saw it, too."

"I have to agree with your brother, Don…"

"No, now, watch…" Don sat up straighter on his end of the couch. "Here comes the instant replay. Don't watch the tag, guys, watch the second baseman's foot. He's not on the bag. The tag is no good."

Alan put on his glasses and leaned forward in the chair, peering at the television. As the video played, he let out a snort of disgust. "Did we have a bet on that?"

Don laughed. "You know the rule. No bets until Charlie turns off the PC." He looked over at his brother on the other end of the couch, grinning madly at the computer back on his lap. "Thanks for doing this, by the way."

Charlie picked up one the files stacked between them. "No, this is great. I can't believe how well this data is formulating itself into the existing algorithim we already used. Beta testing to the max." He put down the folder and began typing again, then looked momentarily at his brother. "You don't think there's some kind of network for financial fraud out there, selling a pirate copy of my application?"

Don wasn't sure Charlie was serious, so he just shook his head, changed the subject. "I hate commercials. Except during the Super Bowl."

A ringtone sounded and all three men automatically reached for their cell phones, Don to his belt clip, Charlie and Alan to the table between the couch and the chair. Alan placed his back on table. "Looks like you win, Charlie."

Charlie smiled and flipped open the cell, pushing himself off the couch. He checked the caller display and frowned, placed the phone to his ear as he walked toward the kitchen and away from the noise of the ballgame. "Hello," Don heard, and tried to get Charlie's attention. He wanted another beer, as long as Charlie was going to the kitchen. "Speaking." Charlie was cupping one hand over his other ear, trying to hear better as he disappeared. "Who is this, again?" His brother didn't turn around to see him waving, and Don decided to wait for the next break in the game.

"What have you got him working on?" asked Alan, eyes still on the screen.

"It's a pretty major fianancial…situation…Merrick wouldn't even let us give him all the data."

Alan tore his eyes away from the screen. "But his security clearance is higher than yours!"

Don rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I wish you would quit saying that. The only thing he's missing is names. We have a code system set up for those. Merrick doesn't want any leaks, to the press. He's pretty manic about this one…NO! NO! That did NOT just happen!"

Alan got his eyes back to the screen in time to see the triple play. "I really wish he would turn that thing off so we could start betting. Your brother would never leak to the press, or anyone else."

"I'm not saying he would, Dad. Not my call. Merrick is really taking this personally. Called us in on Sunday, cancelled all leave, put two teams on it…"

Alan lifted an eyebrow. "Do you even know everything? Or are there codes between levels of FBI involvement?"

Don frowned. "Hard to say. I've never seen the Director this involved on the investigation level. Something's up."

The next set of commercials was half over before Don remembered his beer. He stood and stretched, grabbed the empty from the floor. "Want anything, Dad?"

"No, thank you, son, I'm fine." Alan eyed the empty bottle. "Two more of those, and you're not driving home."

"Dad…"

"I'm serious, Don."

"So I'll make this one last four innings," Don said, and walked into the kitchen.

At the doorway, he saw Charlie sitting at the kitchen table. His cell phone was lying on the table, and he was looking at it as if it were alive, and some sort of threat to him. He was pale. His hands lay limply in his lap. His breathing was so shallow, Don couldn't even swear to it that he **_was_** breathing. His beer forgotten, Don pulled out the chair opposite his brother. "Charlie? What is it?"

He was a little surprised that Charlie reacted right away, but the younger man lifted his eyes from the cell phone long enough to look at Don. "I have to go," he said.

Don felt an almost inexplicable tightening in his own chest as he measured the pain shining in the dark eyes on his. "Where? Who was that?"

"The manager. At the Marina."

The Marina. That could only mean Lost Creek Marina in Southern Oregon, where Charlie's friends Sam and Jenna lived and worked. Charlie had spent several weeks with them last year, and a few months ago he and Don had taken a vacation — of sorts — with them together. His throat began to close a little. "What happened?"

Charlie's eyes were back on the phone, and he spoke as though he were reading from its text display. "Winterizing boats, for storage. Sam works long hours in October, doing that. Jenna took his lunch, they were there together, while he was…he was…he was 'bleeding a line.'" He looked briefly at Don. "I don't know what that means." Back to the phone. "Explosion." Back to Don. "Explosion."

Don reached a hand across the table, but Charlie didn't respond to it. "Tell me," he whispered.

Charlie's eyes wandered around the kitchen, and he shrugged. "Can't. Sam was blown off the boat, under the dock…it was a long time before some other boaters at the dock got him out, and Jenna was hit with shrapnel, Mike thinks. He doesn't know much. It just happened, a few hours ago, and they won't tell him, at the hospital." His eyes finally got back to Don. "Privacy laws."

"Then why did he call you?"

"He had to take their employment paperwork to the hospital, for an emergency contact. It's me. They listed each other, and me. The hospital wants me to come."

Don pulled back in his hand. His fingers drummed the table in front of him. "Buddy, it'll be okay. Have you called the airlines?"

Charlie stood up. "No. I'm just going. I'll have to connect to something in San Francisco anyway."

Don stood as well, stepped around the end of the table to touch his brother's arm. "Go upstairs and pack. I'll see what I can find out, and then I'll take you to the airport." Charlie nodded, but didn't move. "I wish I could go with you, but Merrick…"

His brother stepped back from his touch. "No, that's not necessary," he said. "I'll only be a few days, I'm sure. They probably just want me to sign something."

"Right, absolutely." Don turned away so that Charlie wouldn't see his face. He grabbed his cell, flipped it open. "Go and get some stuff together. I'll call Larry, too, if you want, so he can let the school know?"

Charlie finally started for the stairs. His voice was very small, and Don almost didn't hear it over the rush of blood in his own ears. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don stood in Director Merrick's office. The rest of his team, Megan, Colby and David, sat at the conference table with the Director. Don was in front of the projection screen. "After his application finished running the data, Charlie e-mailed these patterns," Don said. "I'm sure he could explain it all better, but even I can see the clear trail left by Alpha, and the corresponding hits from Delta."

Director Merrick lowered a hand from his chin. "They were our top two on the hit parade," he said. "But we never considered that they could be working together. The profiles didn't show any connection? You've been working on them all morning."

"As far as we can tell," Colby answered, looking at the file again, "they've never even met. They're not based in the same office, their work histories are completely different. They've never even been registered for the same training."

Director Merrick stood. "You're missing something. There is a connection." He looked at Don. "Has Dr. Eppes requested any more data? If he takes what we have on these two, can he cross-reference it?"

"Charlie's not available on this one anymore," Don offered. "But he assured me that his colleagues, Drs. Fleinhardt and Ramanujan, can operate this application without him. They have been helping beta test it, I know that."

Merrick glowered. "Not available? What does _that_ mean? I don't want anyone else in on this. This is sensitive information!"

As if in homage to bad timing, Don felt his cell phone vibrate. "He was called away on an emergency," he started, but Merrick interrupted him.

"I cancelled all time off until this is handled," he fumed. "I **have not** cleared this."

"I don't believe Charlie works for you, Director." All eyes turned to Megan, and then traveled to the Director, waiting for the blow. "He is a consultant, after all. I'm fairly certain you can't dictate his availability to the FBI, on this, or any other, case."

"We'll just see about that," Merrick spat, striding past them to open the door. "You all have work to do." There was a scramble of paperwork and bodies. Colby and David actually got stuck in the doorframe for a moment before they popped out on the other side. Don would have laughed, if it had been any other day.

As soon as the door slammed behind him, he grabbed the still-vibrating phone. "Eppes!"

At first he thought he had missed the call. "Eppes!", he said again, walking to the elevator with the rest of the team.

"Donnie."

Don stopped walking so abruptly that Megan bumped into him. "Charlie?"

The time it took for a response was long enough for Don to wave the team on, and walk over to the window in the hallway. He watched the people on the street below. "Charlie? Are you all right?"

His brother's voice was weary, thin. "I don't think I can do this."

He clutched the phone tighter. "How are they?"

Charlie didn't seem to register the question. "It's because I'm the emergency contact. They want me to tell them. Because, because his driver's license says he's an organ donor, but they say whenever there is a 'next of kin' designated, they try to involve that person in…decisions…"

The rest of the team was on the elevator, waiting for the doors to close, and saw Don lean his head against the window pane. They exchanged looks, and Megan stepped out again, motioned for Colby and David to go on. She walked back toward Don, stopping a few feet away.

"Organ donor? He's on life support?"

"Yes. Another EEG is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and they want me there. They'll want me to say."

Don shuddered. "Geez, Charlie, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his forehead, tried to think. "What about Jenna? Is she unconscious? Why can't they wait for her?"

He heard his brother breathe, then, a gasp, as if he hadn't remembered to breathe in some time. "Bled out." It was a whisper, as if he was telling Don a secret. "Never made it to the hospital."

Don felt his knees go weak, turned around to brace himself against the wall. "Dear G-d. Charlie." He heard his brother gasp again, his breath ragged and wheezy, reminding him of the asthma attacks Charlie had suffered as a child. "Where are you?"

The voice took on a note of despair. "I don't know. I'm outside." Another gasp. "Donnie…"

"Can you find a place to sit down? Do you see a bench, anything?"

"Yeah, all right…" he could hear Charlie trying to pull himself together. "I'm on a bench, now."

Don took a breath. "Listen, Charlie. Last Spring Sam told me that he always wanted a brother, because then he wouldn't have to be alone. He doesn't want you to do this alone, Buddy. When they picked you, they thought you would helping…whichever one of them…" he stopped, momentarily flustered, then went back to his original theme. "I'm sure they wouldn't want you to go through this alone. Let me send Dad. He wanted to go with you last night. I want to come, Charlie…"

His brother's voice sounded a little steadier. "I know. It's okay, you can't. I'll be all right, now."

Don looked at his watch. "Charlie, it's almost four. Dad can get the same flight you did, yesterday, he can be there late tonight." He heard himself pleading, didn't care. "Please, Charlie, let him come."

"It's cold, here." Charlie's attention was wandering, again. "Did you get the e-mail?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry about that, Charlie. We're on it." Don made a decision. Let Charlie blast him for it later. Please, let Charlie blast him for it later. He was going to be the big brother. "I'm calling the motel," he said. "I'll say whatever I have to, I'll use the FBI card, I'm going to get them to leave an extra key at the desk for Dad. He's coming."

He had tried to make his voice forceful, in charge, and it must have worked. Eventually, he heard a small "Okay", just like last night, in the kitchen. It hit him with new force, then. He saw Jenna's head tilted back, looking up at Sam, laughing at something he said. He saw her on the bank of the river, sketch pad in hand. He remembered her arguing with Charlie over a game of Scrabble one rainy night in the RV. Charlie had tried to use Latin. Don squeezed his eyes shut again, threw a hand out into nothing, as if he could touch his brother just by wanting to. "Please be okay," he whispered, and he felt Megan grab the hand firmly with both of hers. "All right, Buddy? Please be okay."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was late when Alan got to the motel in Medford. He had left L.A. before six, but had a layover in San Francisco, waiting for the last connection into the Valley. He didn't arrive until after midnight. By the time he retrieved his luggage, and the motel shuttle took him the few miles he probably could have walked in less time, it was nearly 1 in the morning. Don had been as good as his word, and a key was waiting at the desk for him. Alan walked through the quiet hallways until he found Charlie's corner room. He knocked lightly. He had the key, and didn't want to wake his son, if he was sleeping. Alan had thought there was little chance of that, but there was no answer to the knock. He slipped the card key in the slot, and pushed open the door.

The room was dark, and Alan thought maybe Charlie was sleeping after all. He dropped his bag inside the door and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

It was a nice room, what he could make out. The motel had just been built during a spurt in the local economy a few years ago, and the place seemed large, offering two double beds with bedside tables, a desk he would have to be careful not to run into. A counter over drawers stretched the entire length of one wall to serve as the dresser, and also to hold a coffee tray on one end, a television on the other. Eyes a little more trustworthy now, he ventured farther into the room, around the slight corner the bathroom made. He saw Charlie, then, standing in front of a window at the end of the room. The curtains were only open a few inches, and he was squeezed in behind a small table that sat under the window. Alan walked toward him. He pulled the table out into the room further, and moved to stand beside him.

Charlie flicked his eyes briefly his way, continuing to stand looking out at the parking lot. Alan wanted him to know that he was there, but he knew words had no place here. He stood next to his son for a long time. Finally, he sensed Charlie sag a little, and used the excuse to slip his arm around Charlie's thin shoulders. Charlie had never been a tactile child, and was not a physically demonstrative adult, so Alan wasn't surprised when his shoulders stiffened at his touch. He gave the shoulders a light squeeze, prepared to drop his hand, when Charlie moved into him a little, surprising him. His son slowly leaned on him, tilted his head so that the dark curls rested on Alan's shoulder. Alan raised his own hand higher, then, ran it through those curls, began to murmur a father's love.

Charlie started shaking, but still said nothing. When the shaking grew stronger, Alan pulled back to look at his face, and was startled to see the tears. Charlie's mouth was open and he was starting to sink, but still no sound was coming from him. Alan led him quickly to the nearest bed, barely got him to it before Charlie's knees gave out. He sat heavily on the bed, boneless, and flopped over to curl on one side. There was sound now, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching sound, but it didn't seem to involve air going into lungs, just gulping, uncontrolled sobs that burst from Charlie and shook his entire body and frightened Alan with their intensity.

He felt helpless, more helpless than he had ever felt in his life…except the night Margaret had died. He and Don had sat with her that night, knowing the end was coming…and there was nothing to do. There were only breaths to count, and memorize, never knowing which would be the last. In the back of his mind, always, was the fear that he would not be able to keep his promises to her, the fear that Charlie was already lost. His own soul had been lost then, and there was nothing left in him for Charlie.

Now he remembered her, his hand absently rubbing circles on Charlie's back, and he wished for her again. He was afraid Charlie was going to make himself sick with grief, and his eyes began a search for a nearby trash can, when he finally felt a definite intake of air. His hand rose and fell on Charlie's back, as the sobs reduced to intermittent gasps and shudders.

There was nothing to do, at this moment. Alan counted the breaths, and memorized them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

They took a taxi to the hospital the next morning, Charlie refusing breakfast first. It was raining. Charlie began to talk, eyes tracking the drops as they ran down the window.

"Thanks for coming, Dad. I'm sorry about…my meltdown. I just can't believe she's gone. I don't know how I'll tell Sam."

Alan looked at his son. "I don't need your thanks or your apology, Charlie. I just need to be your father." He shifted, unsure how to ask. "You're going to…tell Sam?"

"Well, he's still unconscious, of course, to I don't know what he'll really process. I'll probably have to tell him again, after he wakes up."

"I'm sorry," Alan was confused. "I thought Donnie said that…"

Charlie turned his head from the window to look directly at his father. "They're wrong about that. They are." He turned his eyes straight ahead, began to fidget with the shoulder strap. "They don't know him. I saw him yesterday, I was with him in the room, and they're…they're just wrong."

Alan remembered the class he had taken at the community center, after Margaret. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. The five stages of grief. Charlie had to work his way through that maze, and he had to do it for two people at once. Last night Alan had thought he had seen acceptance, but now he was seeing something else. He sighed without realizing he had. Why was it the process of grief was never as simple as all the books written about it?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"_I can't believe we're tailing a 4-year-old," Don complained to Megan. He grinned. "Probably Merrick's way of getting you for sticking up for Charlie yesterday."_

_She smiled back, taking her eyes momentarily from the playground. "We lost the coin toss fair and square. Besides," she finished, "it was the truth, and he knew it."_

_Don looked at his watch, again. Seven minutes later. Still in the sandbox. "That's what made him so mad."_

_Megan took a sip of coffee, watched the nanny, talking with all the other nannies. Her voice was pensive when she spoke. "I don't know, Don. For all his anal retentiveness, Director Merrick is a patriot. He loves this country. I think what's really making him angry are the choices of other high level officials."_

_Don drained his paper cup, slowly squeezed it until it became unrecognizable. "I know how he feels, then. This kind of corruption is bad enough. But for them to funnel the money intended for the victims of 9/11 into a yacht, or an island, or whatever they've done with it…we'll probably never even find it."_

_Megan watched her nanny reach for the bag at her feet, became momentarily interested until a great wad of knitting appeared. "At least we have enough to nail both Alpha and Delta, thanks to Charlie's program. But if we can confirm a pass of some kind between them — a bank account number, a security code, something — we'll have more leverage. We can threaten more time. Maybe one of them will try to outdeal the other, lead us to some of the money."_

_The 4-year-old headed for the monkey bars. "That's the last time I let Colby handle the coin toss," he mumbled. "At least he and David get the tail an adult."_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan thought it was a good line of argument. Numbers could convince Charlie of anything.

"It's important to realize that more than 88,000 men, women and children are currently on transplant lists," the doctor was saying. "Every 12 minutes, another name is added. These are the people your friends wanted to help." He looked away from Charlie, down to a chart he was holding. "I see that the woman could not be revived after the penetrating injury, so we were unable to honor her wishes, but the man…"

Alan had never met Sam and Jenna, but even he felt anger at the doctor's reduction of them, his inability to personalize them — especially Sam, who was, after all, still on life support — but he was totally unprepared for Charlie's reaction. His son had refused to sit in the chair offered, and now sprang across the distance between himself and the doctor in one leap, grabbed the collar of the man's lab coat and shoved him, hard, against the wall behind him. "JENNA!" Charlie's voice was low, and sounded all the more menacing for it. "SAM!" Alan jumped to his feet and got to his son after the other physician in the office had already reached them. Together they managed to get Charlie's attention.

"Please. Dr. Eppes. I promise you that if you let go of my resident, I'll give serious thought to decking him myself."

"Son, son," Alan placed his hand over Charlie's. Charlie turned to him, followed his father's arm, appeared shocked to see his own hand under it, still clutching the lab coat. He took a step back, breathing deeply, and allowed his father to pry open his fingers. He didn't seem to be able to do it himself. This time he sat when Alan led him back to the chair.

The resident was bending to pick the charts up off the floor, where they had landed when Charlie shoved him. As he straightened, his attending physician held out his hand to accept them. "Dr. Henderson. I don't believe your assistance is required on this case any longer."

He took a step closer to the resident and spoke quietly so that Charlie wouldn't hear him, but Alan was closer, and he did.

"Working a transplant harvest team may be the procedure in your jacket that would put you over the top in next year's residency pick, but at this hospital, you **will not** dehumanize medicine." The attending shot a look at Charlie, who was still staring at his own hands as if they were foreign to him. He turned back to the resident. "You even think about making an issue out of this, Dr. Henderson, and I assure you, your own bedside manner will come back to haunt you."

The resident straightened his jacket, and had the courtesy to look embarrassed. "Of course, Dr. Martin." He looked at Charlie, but Charlie wouldn't look at him, so he tried Alan, instead. "I'm very sorry. I apologize if I offended you."

Dr. Martin waited until the door closed behind him to drag a chair out from behind the desk and sit directly across from Charlie.

"Dr. Eppes."

Alan saw Charlie struggle with something, finally look up. "I'm sorry." He had missed the last several minutes, and now he looked around, confused. "Where is he? I should apologize."

"Don't worry about him. He needs to worry about me." Dr. Martin glanced quickly at Alan, then returned his eyes to Charlie. "Dr. Eppes, I am very sorry for your loss. Mrs. Carver must have been an extraordinary individual, to inspire such devotion." He waited, but Charlie just nodded his head. "I understand that this is extremely difficult," Dr. Martin continued. "Mr. Carver has no pupiillary response to light, no corneal reflex. There is no motor response to fifth and seventh cranial nerve pressure. No gag or cough reflex. Two separate EEGs led us to conduct an aponea test, during which we disconnected the ventilator. Respiratory movements remained absent and the level of arterial carbon dioxide reached a critical point. He suffered head injuries in the explosion, and remained under water for some time. Discontinuation of the ventilator at this point should not be viewed as withdrawing life support, but rather as ceasing a futile intervention."

Charlie's hands were still not part of him. He looked at them, One clasped the other so tightly the knuckles were white, but he couldn't feel them. He looked at his father. He looked at Dr. Martin.

"The issue of organ donation does remain. Already some organs will probably not be viable for transplant, and that _is_ what Mr. Carver indicated as his desire."

"But there are 'miracles'. All the time. You read about someone waking up after 10 years in a coma…"

"Mr. Carver is not in a coma, Dr. Eppes. He is in a vegetative state."

Charlie finally made one of his hands move. He reached over and grabbed for Alan's. "But I don't have the right," he said, voice breaking. He looked at Alan, all the fear and heartache and confusion he felt in his dark eyes, so bottomless with despair that Alan felt his own heart crack. "Daddy, I don't have the right. Who am I to say this?" Charlie's voice was rising. "Who am I?"

Alan let go of his hand so that he could pull his head into an embrace. "This is not you, my son, you are not doing this to anyone. Your friends, they made this decision." He took a deep breath. "And they trusted you to honor it."

Charlie straightened in the chair, brushed at his eyes with one hand. "Please," he said, to no one, to everyone. "Please."

The doctor spoke again. "If you would care to be in the room, Dr. Eppes…"

Charlie shuddered. "No." He looked at the doctor for a long moment. "How long would this take?"

"The teams are already assembled. We can proceed right away. Considering the results of this morning's aponea test, during which we administer oxygen, I wouldn't think that Mr. Carver will sustain very long."

Alan was afraid. Was Charlie going to try to watch this? "Son, you don't need to be there," he started, but Charlie suddenly stood up.

"Let me sign whatever I have to sign," he said to the doctor, and then looked at Alan. "He wanted a brother, so he wouldn't have to be alone. I can't let him be alone."

In the end, Alan stood in the hallway, watching through a window. So many people crowded around Sam's machinery, Sam's head, that he didn't have to watch it happen. That wasn't what he was trying to see, anyway. He was watching Charlie. Standing near the end of the bed, one elbow propped in the other hand so that he could hold a hand over his mouth, rocking slowly from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. Alan saw him when he squeezed his eyes shut, slid his hand up to cover them. The flurry of activity started again, but someone led Charlie to the door, and Alan received him. Charlie's eyes met his, and he reached out to caress his son's face, rough with the day's stubble, wet with the day's tears.

He led him down the hall, and out into the rain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Don waited for the child to come out the other end of the dinosaur. "Quantico would be proud," he muttered. "Maybe she's making a pass to another kid somewhere in the region of its liver."_

_Megan laughed, then immediately sobered. She looked at Don. "You don't think that's really happening?"_

_He grinned back. "I hope not. I'd never make it undercover as a 4-year-old girl."_

_Megan watched the nanny. Reading a book today. Must be a student. She was taking notes in the margin. "So have you heard from your Dad, or Charlie?"_

"_Swingset. This is going to make me dizzy." Don glanced briefly toward Megan. "Dad called last night. Charlie needs to stay a couple of more days to finalize…everything. They booked a flight back Friday. You know that Charlie took his lap top, so he could finish up for us on the flight down?"_

_Megan nodded._

"_I guess he used it to search for Sam Carver's biological parents. He thinks he found his father, in the area, and he wants to rent a car and drive out there today."_

_Megan frowned. "Why?"_

"_Dad said they have to wait until Thursday for the…cremains, anyway, and Charlie can't sit still. He says the guy should know."_

"_Well, yeah, I guess so. But you'd think the local authorities would take care of that."_

"_They probably would, if Charlie gave them the information and asked them to. But the papers Sam left made it pretty clear who to notify, and he…was…an adult. The notarized list says 'I have no biological family'. Charlie just looked because he's going crazy, and Sam never actually said that his parents were deceased, just that they were estranged."_

"_Did your Dad say how Charlie is taking all this?"_

_Don's shoulders slumped, and he slid down a little further in the seat. "He's worried. You know Dad, he's always worried."_

_Megan smiled fondly as Don went on. "But, I guess the…disconnection? I guess the hospital was really bad."_

"_I can imagine."_

_Don looked at her. "I don't think you can. Dad said Charlie slammed a doctor halfway through a wall."_

_Megan's eyes widened. "Charlie?"_

_Don looked back at the playground. "Charlie. Dad says he seems to swing between extremes, non-responsive or explosive." He grimaced. "Poor choice of words."_

"_Is he eating? Sleeping?"_

_Don shrugged. "Dad says not enough of either. He was in the shower last night when I called, so I didn't get to talk to Charlie. I thought he might call me back…"_

"_This would be difficult for anyone," Megan assured him. "It sounds like Charlie's reactions are normal. For now."_

_He raised his eyebrows, questioning._

"_It's just that the Charlie I know is so…tender, so vulnerable and sensitive. I think he might have some difficulty progressing through the normal grieving process."_

_Don bit off a short, sarcastic laugh. "No kidding. You should have seen him when Mom died."_

"_Then you know some signs to watch for." She sighed. "I just hate to see things like this."_

"_He'll be okay." Don spoke firmly, tried to make himself believe it. "It's only been a couple of days."_

_Megan suddenly sat a little straighter in the SUV next to him. "Hey."_

_His eyes searched the playground. His kid was still on the swings. "What?"_

"_Why would you take notes in a book that looks like a novel? Students scribble notes in the margins of textbooks. And why would you take notes, and then give the novel to another nanny?"_

"_Maybe we should find out. They're still just sitting there. See if you can get an I.D. on the other nanny."_

_Megan was already focusing the digital camera._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Alan thought his heart would stop when he saw the rifle. Even though it wasn't pointed at them. The old man was just holding it, while he stood on the porch of a house that looked like it should be condemned, and looked down at them standing in the mud.

"That's fur enough. What you be wantin' here?"

He was surprised Charlie could find his voice. He wasn't at all sure that he could. "Please, are you Ed Carver?"

The rain started dropping again, but the old man didn't invite them any closer. "Yep."

"Do you have a son, a son named Samuel? About my age?"

The rifle raised, just enough to make Alan grab Charlie's arm. "Did, once. No good. Kicked him out. Kicked his mother out, too, a year later. Bitch took off with some rancher. Don't know where either one of 'em is, now. Pretty sure she's dead, though. Don't care. You got business with one of them, you just go on and leave."

Alan pulled on Charlie's arm. Leaving was a good idea.

"I'm just here to give you some information." Charlie turned to his father. "Dad, get in the car, out of the rain." He looked back at the old man on the porch. "Can I come a little closer?"

"No. You just say yer piece."

Charlie hesitated. This was not something he wanted to say, let alone yell across a mudlot. Alan wouldn't go to the car, get out of the rain. He was going to get sick.

"Sam…Sam passed away, a few days ago." Charlie marveled at the soundness of his own voice. "I could tell you about…"

The old man advanced a step, the rifle went up another inch. "That boy is a A-dult. I ain't responsible for his debts, no more. You can't make me pay nuthin."

That stunned Charlie into silence.

"We're not here for money, sir," Alan finally said. "My son would just like to tell you, about yours…"

The old man's eyes flickered between them. "That yer boy?"

Alan nodded.

His heart stopped again when the rifle came completely up to the shoulder, and the old man drew a bead on Charlie. "You best git him on out of here, then. He's trespassin."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: All names are fictitious. (Actually, this entire story is fictitious.)** …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 6**

_Colby looked at Megan. "It was the book?"_

"_Right. The digital scan popped up 'Tracy Adipose', and a run on her name showed she's the sister of Ben Adipose, a senior staffer in the Director's office at Homeland Security. She probably didn't even know what she was passing. She and Jillian Rampart, Senator Stans' nanny, crossed paths in the park once a week. Rampart gave a book to Adipose, who then passed it on to her brother. That's how the two communicated, and how Director Wilkins got the account numbers for the 9/11 reparations to Stans."_

_David shook his head. "Yeah, I see that. What I don't get is the code."_

"_We've got Amita to thank for that," said Don. "Well, and Charlie. It was his existing logorithm, developed for…" he checked his notes… "'Gematrical and Sequential Values As Applied to Hebrew, Greek and Arabic'…" he looked up. "Geez. Anyway, Amita was able to access and run that on the computer in his office, and detected the pattern."_

"_I'm still confused, here," Colby admitted. "How did she even know which program to run?"_

_Megan handed him a file. "There are copies in there of pages from the book. Certain page numbers were circled, and Amita ran what she called 'a few simple patterns' to determine that '7', for example, indicated the seventh letter of main text on that page. When she finally put them all together, she recognized Arabic in one of the patterns, so she started with that one. She ran those words through Charlie's computer."_

"_And that was it?"_

"_With a twist," answered Don. "We thought we were on the wrong track, because neither Gematrical or sequential values cross-referenced with the data we already had. Then Amita got an idea, and added both values together That was it. The 9/11 reparation account missing 1.2 billion. So far."_

"_So why aren't we in the box with Stans and Wilkins?" asked David._

_Don grimaced. "Merrick is. There's another whole team for interrogation, all with security levels much higher than ours. Turns out we were just the gophers on this."_

_All four agents let that digest for a while._

"_So I have two more questions," Colby finally said. The others looked at him expectantly. "First, looks like we're through with overtime. Anybody up for pizza and beer?"_

"_Way ahead of you, Granger." Don dropped a stack of files on his desk. "But pizza only, and it's coming here. We've got paperwork." He held up a hand when Colby started to protest. "You and Sinclair have it easy. Megan and I are the ones who lost the coin toss and got the 4-year-old, remember?"_

_David held out his hand. "We're a team. Everybody helps, everybody stays on this one. Especially if there's pizza coming."_

_Megan started to turn toward her desk. "Wait, Colby, you said you had two questions."_

_Colby was looking down at the file he still held, the one Megan had handed him earlier. "Yeah. Listen, guys," he looked up, from face to face. "Does anybody know what the hell 'Gematrical' means?"_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie sat at the table under the window. His father was across the street in a restaurant, having dinner, but Charlie had begged off again. He promised to try and eat whatever his Dad brought back for him, but the thought of all that food together in one place, amalgamating smells…he thought it might make him vomit, and he'd done that three times today already. Only once that Alan had witnessed, as soon as he got out of bed this morning. Alan had gone downstairs to get the rented car the second time, about an hour later, and Charlie had fought all day to keep it from happening again. His father was worried enough as it was. As soon as Alan left for dinner, though, describing various meals as he went, trying to get Charlie to say what he preferred…well, the door closed behind Alan, and Charlie barely got to the bathroom.

He had a headache, too. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. He would dream of nights on the river. He would remember the touch of Jenna's hand as she turned his face last Spring, to get a look at his black eye. He saw Sam throwing wood on the fire, laughing at Charlie's yard sale tent.

He started. The phone was ringing. How long had the phone been ringing? Wearily, he pushed himself up and walked to the table between the beds. He lifted the receiver and sank down on one.

"Yes?"

"Charlie! Hey, it's me."

Charlie's voice sounded distracted. "Right. How are you, Don? Do you need something for the case?"

"No, no, Amita helped us today. She did a great job. That's why I'm calling, actually, all we have left on this one is the paperwork, and we're all staying late tonight to get the bulk of that out of the way."

"You're still at work?" Charlie looked at his watch. It was after 8 o'clock.

"Yeah, I'm just taking a break, walking around a little. I was thinking I should be able to pick you guys up at the airport tomorrow. You won't be in until afternoon, right? I think Dad said something about another layover in San Francisco."

"I…we'll…is tomorrow Friday?"

Don stopped walking. "Yeah, Charlie. Listen, I'll ask Dad about the airport, he probably has all the information. He made the reservations."

"Okay. He's not here right now. Went out to dinner."

Don looked up at the light fixtures. "I'll call his cell. Charlie? How ya doin'?"

The answer was too fast, too rote. "I'm all right."

Don was at a loss. "You're eating? Sleeping?"

He was relieved to hear a dry chuckle. "Not at the same time, no."

Don smiled into his cell phone. "Separately, then."

"Some," Charlie admitted. "Not much. Of either."

"Just hang in there, Buddy. You'll be home tomorrow night."

Charlie looked back to the table under the window, at the two small plastic boxes that lay there. "Right." He stood up. "Don, I'm tired. Thanks for calling." Without waiting for an answer, he hung up the phone, and walked back to the table. He reached out with one hand, lightly touched first one, then the other.

Is this all there was, then?

All the years, all the months, all the days, all the hours, _all the numbers…_ is this what they were reduced to?

He **never** thought it would all come to this.

He never **thought** it would all come to this.

He never thought it would all come to **this**.

He wandered back to a bed, turning lights off on the way, huddled under the covers in a fetal position.

If he thought he was sleeping, his father wouldn't wake him up to make him eat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Don was shocked when he saw his father lead Charlie out of baggage claim. His brother looked pale, even from a distance, like he'd been ill for months. He walked slowly, stiffly, his backpack hanging so precariously from his shoulder that Alan had to keep pushing it up, finally taking it to carry himself. He led Charlie to a bench outside the airport and searched the pick-up traffic for Don's SUV. He spotted him, smiled a tight smile, and signaled. He turned back to look at Charlie, then looked at Don again and shrugged.

Don couldn't help but remember the last time he had picked Charlie up here, a year-and-a-half ago, after his hitchhiking trip to Oregon, when he'd been gone for six weeks. He had spotted the SUV and loped up to the passenger side before Don had even seen him. Don pulled over to the curb. No loping today.

Alan opened the back door and threw in the bags, then waited for Charlie to climb in. "You need help with the seatbelt, son?"

Charlie grimaced, but his voice sounded weak. "I can do it, Dad."

Alan shut the door, opened the front passenger one. "He got sick on the airplane," he said, getting in beside Don.

Don ignored the security guard waiting for them to pull away and turned to look at his brother.

"I'm okay," Charlie said before Don could speak. "I don't know what happened. I've never been airsick before."

Don gripped Charlie's knee once before he turned back around. "Just don't lose your lunch in my car."

Pulling out, he heard his father mutter something about Charlie having to eat lunch before he could lose it.

"So, I'm done for the day," he said. "Thought I could just hang out with you guys tonight?"

Alan smiled. "Of course. I saw the story in a newspaper while we were waiting in San Francisco: _'L.A. F.B.I. Office Breaks Homeland Security Fraud Scheme'_. Very impressive."

"Yeah," put in Charlie. "Lots on initials."

Don grinned into the rear view mirror. "Chinese take-out?"

He heard his father's affirmation, but didn't miss the green tint on his brother's face. "I'll take you home, first. You can rest for a while."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie descended the stairs slowly. He felt as if he had been hit by a truck. At the bottom, he looked into the living room and smiled. Don might have said he was stopping at home first so that Charlie could rest, but he was the one unconscious on the couch. Alan was snoring in the chair nearby. Charlie _had_ made an effort. Unpacked, showered, changed into a comfortable old t-shirt and sweats, even laid down on his bed for a few minutes.

But then, he had closed his eyes.

Someone had replaced his eyelids with movie screens. Every time he closed them, some part of his life with Sam and Jenna replayed. If only he could figure out a way to sleep with his eyes open. He was getting tired.

He walked quietly by his sleeping family, into the kitchen.

He felt an enormous sense of relief as he opened the door to the garage. All of the chalkboards in sight were already filled with equations for Charlie's current research project, but he reached behind the old, battered, cast-away couch pushed up against one wall, and hauled out another one. He took one off an easel and propped it against the couch, placing the clean one in its place. He picked up the chalk.

G-d, how he loved the feel of it. Its smoothness. He loved the smell of it. He loved watching microscopic pieces of it float through the air, landing in his hair, and on everything else.

He stepped up to the board, and raised his hand.

"P"

He stepped back. It was too messy. He erased it, tried again.

"P"

That was better.

He sighed, let the peace flow through him…made the mistake of closing his eyes.

"I always wanted a brother," Sam said.

His eyes popped open. He, Charlie, he had a brother. Inside, sleeping on the couch. And he, Charlie, had made a promise to that brother. He had promised that he would never do this again. The peace left him, as quickly as it had come. What would he do, then? Where else would he find it? He put the chalk into the tray, wandered around the garage, trying to interest himself in the equations on the other boards. He ended up back where he had started. He wanted to do it. He needed to do it. He had promised not to do it.

He closed his eyes and thought of Sam, intentionally this time. He remembered the difficulties Sam and Don had when they first met, and how it all came down to brotherhood; Sam's needing one, Don's being afraid that Sam would take his. He opened his eyes again, stared at the "P". Don was afraid that this would take his brother, too.

He should be afraid.

Charlie sat on the cold cement floor, and stared up at the chalkboard.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Don found him there, shivering, two hours later. Barefoot, curled up on the floor under his blackboards, asleep. At first his focus was just on Charlie, and he started over to wake him up, when he saw the board, the single "P". That one letter alone made him stop. He came to himself again when he heard a soft sound escape his brother. He looked down and saw that he was talking in his sleep, but Don couldn't quite make it out. He stepped closer. Charlie curled a little tighter. "Mom," he whispered. "Mama?"

Shit.

Don knelt down next to Charlie, started shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, Buddy. Come on, it's cold out here."

He shook a little harder, talked a little louder. "Charlie."

His brother opened his eyes. "Sam?"

Don waited for Charlie to wake up a little more. "It's Don. Come on, I'll help you sit up."

Charlie leaned heavily on him as Don managed to get him as far as the old couch. He blinked up at Don. "I fell asleep."

Don knew he should get him into the house, but he had to know, first. "Charlie, what's this?"

Charlie followed his finger to the blackboard. He stared at the single "P", then looked at Don. "I didn't do it," he said, his voice small. "Anymore of it, I mean. I wanted to, but, but I remembered that I promised." He was afraid that Don would be angry. He began to plead, his voice breaking into a sob at the end. "Please. I didn't do it."

Double shit.

Don joined Charlie on the couch, sat close enough so that their shoulders touched and he could feel his brother's shivers. He spoke gently, trying not to frighten him anymore. "I can see that, Charlie. It's okay. Thank you, for keeping your promise."

Charlie smiled a little. "It was hard."

"I can see that, too." Don allowed the silence to continue for a while, then stood again. He reached out a hand to Charlie. "Come on, come inside, have something warm to eat — some soup? Go to bed. It's really cold out here."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Once Charlie started sleeping, he couldn't seem to stop. After Don had gotten him up to bed on Friday night, he stayed almost 24 hours, only rising then for a sleepwalk to the bathroom. It was Sunday afternoon before he joined his father downstairs again.

"I'm glad you got some sleep." His Dad handed him a bottle of water. "Can I interest you in something to go with this?"

Charlie knew he would have to try. He followed Alan into the kitchen, sat down at the table. "Whatever you were going to make, Dad."

Alan opened the refrigerator. "I know it's not time for breakfast, but I was going to scramble some eggs anyway. I was in the mood."

The eggs went down more easily than he expected, actually making Charlie hungry for more, but his head was sagging almost in his plate.

"I'd push my luck," Alan said, "but I think you'd better go back to bed. Are you going to work tomorrow?"

Charlie blinked. "Tomorrow's Monday?"

Alan nodded. "You slept through the entire weekend, my boy."

"I should go, then." Charlie didn't sound very excited, but Alan figured it was the tiredness.

"Back to bed with you, then. You'd better set the alarm, the way you've been sleeping."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie was sore. Still sore. He didn't remember not being sore. And he had a headache, again. But he tried to smile at Larry and Amita. "I appreciate your helping Don while I was gone."

"It was all Amita, Charles, she was brilliant. We're both so relieved that you've returned to work."

"You look tired," Amita noted. "Maybe you should ease into it a little."

Charlie's hand went to his pounding head. "I'm sure I can manage my class load, Amita." His voice sounded more irritated than he had intended, and he tried to soften the words with another smile.

"Of course," she said, smiling back. "And I'm sure your students will he happy to see you again."

As is to prove her point, there was a timid knock on the open door and one of Charlie's lower classmen was there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Professors, I just wanted to sign up for a place during office hours?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't had time to post the schedule yet," Charlie answered. "I need to get one copied…" he dug through his desk, finding the master.

"I'll do it, Dr. Eppes, I can run down to the copy center and bring it right back — if I can sign up for the first opening?"

Charlie tried to rub his head and sigh without anyone noticing. He held the paper out to the student. "Sure," he said. "Whatever."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After the garage incident, Don had a fairly restful weekend himself, which was good, because Monday morning brought a new case, and the flurry was on again. He called his father once to check on Charlie, and was relieved to hear he had gone to work. He was going to call Charlie, but he had been interrupted by Colby, who had some information he had been waiting for.

Wednesday evening, although it was after 8 when he left work, Don drove by the house.

Charlie was sitting at the kitchen table, lap top open, stacks of paper around him.

"Hey," Don said. "I see you're back at it." He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and joined his brother at the table.

"Sort-of. I have a few papers to grade. Lesson plans to devise. That's just the bare bones, but I can't even seem to get that done. I can't concentrate."

"Maybe you're pushing it. Went back to work too soon."

Charlie abruptly pushed back his chair and stood, slammed the lap top shut and started grabbing papers. "I'm fine. I sleep. I eat. I work. I wish everyone would just leave me alone." He leaned across the table for a stray paper and winced.

Don was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing. It's my shoulder. And nothing. Maybe I slept on it wrong. It just hurts."

"Look, I didn't mean to upset you…"

He watched his brother deflate. Like a balloon loosing its air. "I know. I'm still tired." Charlie looked down at his arms, filled with papers. "I have to do this."

Don took in his brother's slump, the lines of fatigue on his face. "Can you get up early and do it? You really look beat."

Charlie laid everything back on the table, picked up his backpack from the floor and began shoving it all in. "I'll do it during my free class tomorrow. " He added the lap top to the pack and started for the stairs. "I don't know. Sometime."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Megan made a face. Stake-out coffee. Did the places that sold this stuff know its destination? Did they keep a special pot of week-old grounds in the back? She looked over at Don. He didn't seem to be having any trouble with his.

"So how's Charlie? He hasn't been by the office since he's been back."

"Yeah, I was glad we didn't need him on this case. It's been almost two weeks, but he's still…not really Charlie."

"In what way?"

"He's not even going to work every day. Well, he missed one this week, anyway. He told Dad he just didn't feel well. He gets a lot of headaches, complains of something hurting almost all the time. You can see it in the way he walks, the way he holds himself. He's not making this stuff up."

"I'm sure he's not. Is he still sleeping a lot?"

"I was there for dinner a couple of nights ago. He almost fell asleep in the plate, again. Even when he tries to stay up and get something done, he says he can't concentrate."

Megan was frowning. "His appetite?"

"Not normal. Well…what's normal, for Charlie? I'm pretty sure he's lost weight, though."

"How's his…equilibrium? Is he irritable, anxious?"

"He was okay the other night, just quiet…last week he let me have it once, though." Don looked at Megan steadily. "Why are you asking all these questions? He's just having a hard time."

"Don, when this sort of thing goes on too long, it could be signaling a major depression. Psychosocial events like the traumatic death of a loved one — or two, in this case — they take away a sense of self control. You told me about his withdrawal into math when your mother died."

"He hasn't done that this time, " Don assured her. "Right after he got back, he almost did, and we talked about it a little. He said that he remembered his promise to me."

Megan tried some more of the coffee, regretted it. "That's good. But what is he doing instead, what coping mechanisms is he using?"

Don felt some apprehension. Had he been wrong to tell Charlie not to use his numbers? "I'm not sure."

"Just keep an eye on him. Like you said, it hasn't even been two weeks, yet. Spend some time with him." She grinned. "If we ever get off this stake-out."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

By the time he got out of the office, it was too late to call anybody, but he made sure to call Charlie early the next morning.

"Don, is something wrong? It's not even 7, yet."

"I know, I'm fine, Charlie. I just wanted to talk to you before we both headed off to work. You're not at work yet, right?"

"Actually, yes. A departmental meeting is starting in five minutes."

"Oh. Sorry. Listen, I'll make it quick. I just wanted to hear how you are."

"Fine, for the moment. Not exactly prepared for this meeting, though."

"Still trying to catch up on everything?"

"Did you need me to do something for a case? I'm not sure I can, right now."

"No, Charlie, I just wanted to talk. Let yourself off the hook a little."

Don grimaced. A few months ago, during the brothers' vacation with Sam and Jenna in Oregon, Charlie had ended up with Don's fishhook in his arm. Not the memory he wanted to invoke. "Sorry. I mean, take it easy."

Charlie cleared his throat. "I know. Don't worry so much. I don't want to be so much trouble to everyone."

"Trouble? Charlie, you're not trouble, really…"

His brother's voice got quieter. "Meeting's starting."

"Right, you've gotta go. I'll try to get by the house this weekend, or before. Call me if you want to talk?"

There was a sudden edge of panic in Charlie's voice. "Be careful at work."

"I will, Charlie. I'll see you soon."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Soon" turned out to be Saturday. Don had stopped by the house again Thursday night, but Charlie was sleeping again. Don shared dinner with his father. "Does it seem like he's getting any better to you?"

Alan put his fork down. "I think it's getting all mixed up, for him. The other day I found him with one of the old photo albums, from when you were kids. I think he was looking at pictures of your mother."

"I'll come by this weekend, see if I can get him to talk to me."

Saturday morning, Don arrived as Alan was leaving. "Groceries," said the father to the son as they met in the driveway. "He's in the garage."

Don entered the kitchen and crossed to the garage door. When he opened it, he was relieved to see that Charlie wasn't back at the "P" board. In fact, that board was gone again. Charlie wasn't working on anything at all. He was just standing, looking at the sporting equipment mounted on the wall. He heard Don behind him. "Hey."

"Hi, Charlie. Whatcha doin'"

"I was going to clean the garage. I actually had a moment of energy. Which I should spend on all the papers I still have to grade, but I was getting a headache again. I thought something physical might help."

That all sounded good to Don. Except the headache. He tracked Charlie's gaze, then, and saw that he was looking specifically at his fishing pole. While Don watched, Charlie reached out and plucked it from its mounts.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I was going to throw it away," Charlie said. "Unless you want it? I know you lost yours in the river last Spring."

Don was surprised. "Throw it away? You love that pole. You love fishing."

Charlie brushed a hand over the fiberglass. "You can have it," he said again. "I won't be fishing again." He looked at Don. "Ever since I caught that hook, I've been pretty sure I couldn't do that to another fish."

Don smiled tentatively. "You'll get over that. Maybe."

Charlie hung the pole back on the wall. "No. I won't be fishing anymore." He turned toward Don. "We'll keep storing it here, I know you have a storage problem. But it's yours, now, okay?"

Don wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. This was unchartered territory. He decided to avoid the subject of the fishing pole entirely. "Do you want some help cleaning the garage?"

Charlie pushed past him for the stairs back into the house. "No, thanks. I changed my mind."

"Well…we could do something else, then. A movie?"

By now they were both back in the kitchen. Charlie's eyes strayed to the papers on the dining room table. "I should work."

"Come on, Charlie, a movie. A couple of hours. Getting out will refresh you, you'll get more done later."

"I'm sorry," his brother said. "I'm being too much trouble, again." Before Don could protest, Charlie opened the kitchen door. "Let's go."

Don was having trouble keeping up with Charlie's mind again, but not in the usual way. "Okay," he finally sputtered, "but wait, Charlie…"

Charlie was already halfway to the SUV.

"Charlie!"

His brother finally stopped and faced him. "What?"

Don pointed at Charlie's feet. "I think you might need some shoes."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The movie was a comedy — Don was damned if he was going to take Charlie to a drama, right now — and he actually heard his brother laugh, once. Don considered the outing a success, even though he had gotten called to work right after the movie ended, and he wasn't able to really talk to Charlie. In fact, it was several days before they connected again, and then in was through Colby.

Leaving the conference room after a team briefing, he looked at Don. "Hey, I had lunch with Charlie, today."

"Really? How'd that happen?"

"He called, this morning. I thought he was looking for you, that you'd decided to bring him in on this one, but he just asked if I could meet him for lunch. Well, he asked David, too, but he didn't make it back from Century City in time."

That was odd. "Just lunch?"

"Yeah. I thought maybe he had an agenda or something, but he said he was just thinking about stuff. That's his word: 'stuff'. It was kind-of nice, I haven't seen the Whiz Kid lately." Colby broke off for his desk. "Looks pretty skinny, but he packed that lunch somewhere!"

Don felt Megan's hand on his arm. "Don, can I talk to you back in the conference room?"

He followed her back in and waited for her to speak. "Didn't you tell me that Charlie tried to give you his fishing pole last weekend?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Does he talk about being…worthless, or…"

"'Trouble.' He keeps apologizing for being so much trouble. But he seemed to have a good time at the movie…"

"Sad for weeks, suddenly happier. Unusual visits with people."

"You mean lunch with Colby. That is pretty unusual. For anybody."

Megan looked at him. "Don, I'm concerned. I think you need to talk to your father, and both of you need to talk to Charlie. Soon."

He frowned. "Why?"

"I'm not a psychologist, you know that, but my undergraduate concentration was in that field. And I volunteer."

Don waited.

She took a breath. "At a suicide hotline."

Don took a step back. "No. He's getting better. He's just having a rough time."

Megan touched his arm again. "Don…I hope I'm wrong. But from what you've told me, he's clinically depressed. You all need to deal with that, even if it hasn't gone this far, yet."

She let her voice become quiet. "I really hope I'm wrong. But is that a chance you want to take?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "You're right about talking to Dad, at least, about all of us talking together. I'll go tonight."

Megan smiled. "I'll go with you, if you think having a non-family member, but someone he knows, might make Charlie feel less threatened. To arbitrate."

"Maybe. I never really know with Charlie, especially these days." He imagined the conversation. "Yeah, actually, I think that might be a good idea. Thanks, Megan." They left the conference room again, and Don headed for the phone to call his father.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He saw the questions in his father's eyes that evening as he greeted Megan. "I'm always happy to see you, Megan. I would have made dinner, but Don said that we'd just order pizza? That you'd like to speak with us?"

Don led them through the kitchen into the dining room. "Is Charlie home?"

"He's upstairs. Got home about an hour ago from Cal Sci, said he was tired and was getting a headache. Again." Alan sighed, sat at the table with his son and Megan. "He stopped in the solarium to get something he left there last night, and then went up to his room." He started to stand. "Should I get him?"

"Not just yet, Mr. Eppes." She smiled when he held up a hand. "Alan. I think the three of us need to talk first." …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed, what he had retrieved from the solarium lying in front of him.

It had been easy, taking the picture off the wall, working the combination to the wall safe from memory.

He knew it was loaded, and he knew it worked. When he moved back from Albuquerque, Don had insisted they needed it, had bought it himself and put it in the safe. He took it to the range at least once a year, cleaning it afterwards, quizzing Alan and Charlie to make sure they knew how to use it. He hoped Don didn't feel too badly about that, later. At least he thought it was hope. He didn't really recognize that emotion, anymore.

He knew he should leave some kind of note. He had been trying for days to write one. But he was so tired, and nothing he wrote made any sense. He had finally settled for scribbled pencil on graph paper. He leaned over to place the two-word note on the end of the bed: "I'm sorry".

On the way back up, his hand brushed over the cold steel. It almost made him feel, again.

He had thought about how to do it. He knew the gun should go in his mouth, and he had decided it should point up, toward the roof of his mouth, so that the bullet would blow his brain out the top of his head. He had read about people who pointed the gun backwards, toward their necks, and sometimes that didn't work. If the aim was off, they didn't do enough damage to die. Just enough to lie in one place forever.

He picked it up, then, in both hands.

He opened his mouth.

This was awkward. Either his mouth wasn't big enough, or guns weren't supposed to point this way.

He took it out of his mouth, wiped the saliva from the barrel, then turned it so that he was looking straight into it. He could always place it directly on his forehead. He placed a finger on the trigger, to see what it felt like. Hesitated.

Maybe.

Maybe he didn't have to do it this way.

Maybe he didn't have to do it today.

Maybe there was some other answer. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I'll go up and get him," Don said. When he had heard Megan explain it all to his father, he had known that he had let this go too long. Even if Charlie hated him afterwards, they needed to talk to him, encourage him to get some help.

He mounted the stairs and stopped at his brother's door. It was closed, but not completely latched. When he knocked, it swung open.

He saw his brother on the bed, holding the gun, and he heard his own voice echoing. "CHARLIE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" He started to move across the room, but even as he did he saw his brother start, frightened out of his reverie by Don's voice. Charlie's head turned instinctively toward the sound even while the rest of his body jerked and convulsed in reaction.

With his finger on the trigger, his hands coiled.

With the gun pointing at him, his fingers spasmed.

With his mouth opening to say his brother's name, the explosion rocked the bed. The blood spattered on the wall behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: That last one nearly killed me, too.** …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 11**

Alan and Megan heard the shot from their places in the dining room. They looked at each other, eyes wide, and then Alan found himself taking the stairs two at a time, something he hadn't done in 20 years.

He smelled the acrid burn of gunpowder before he registered the scene before him. Don was at Charlie's bedside, one hand on his brother's neck, checking for a carotid pulse, the other holding a cell phone to his ear already. He was blocking Alan's view of Charlie, but he could see a hand hanging limply off the bed, a gun on the floor below. He shifted a little in the doorway to try and see around Don.

Blood. He saw blood, dripping down Charlie's head and soaking into his mattress, and Alan was there, pushing Don away, kneeling at the bed and touching Charlie, grabbing the limp hand. He was keening over his son, howling. He did not see Megan on the other side of the bed, checking Charlie's head wound, her own cell phone out. There was no measure of time.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_EMTs. IV lines. Oxygen. Backboard. Stretcher. Too many people pulling at him, talking at him, trying to remove him from Charlie's hand._

_One presence._

_Did no one else see her?_

_One presence, soft and peaceful, whispers he couldn't quite put into words, touches he couldn't quite feel._

_One presence, one presence that settled within him and stilled his panic, and filled his heart._

_One presence, that moved like the smoke from the gun, that expanded to be both with him, in him, part of him…and part of Charlie. He saw her there, he felt her there, with her son, and he didn't panic again, he just wondered…was she there to take him with her, or was she there to give him back?_ …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Colby found them in the waiting area of the ER. None of them looked like they knew how they got there. He pulled up a chair. "Have you heard anything?" No one offered a verbal response, but he got a slight shake of the head from Megan. "I've been at the scene…the house," he offered. "Found a round in the wall behind the bed. If there was only one shot, at least the bullet is not actually _in_ his head…" Damn. Mr. Eppes and Don didn't even react to that. Only Megan seemed to understand. There was a tiniest light of hope in her eyes, but then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

"I should have spoken sooner. If I had spoken just one day sooner…"

"I should have kept in closer touch. I knew he was getting lost…"

"I should have seen it. I'm the one who lives with him, who sees him every day…"

They all spoke at once, then lapsed into silence, again.

Colby propped his elbows on his knees, leaned and looked at the floor. "So, when Charlie wakes up," he said, "you've all got a little more for him to take on?" The three looked at him. "He has to sense your guilt, know that your pain is his fault, add all that to whatever led him here tonight?" They didn't answer. He stood, paced a little, came back to face them. "Everybody did the best he — or she — could. Even Charlie. You have to let it go, all of you, if you want to help him. This is not the way to help him."

Don looked up at him. That didn't sound like easily learned insight. Colby saw the question in his eyes. "My cousin. When we were in high school. Only she used pills, and came really close to succeeding. Now? Now it's 15 years later, she's a pilot for Hawaiian airlines, has two little girls of her own and is married to a great guy." He squatted in front of Don and Alan. "I'm telling you, this doesn't have to be the end for Charlie. This can be a beginning."

Don wanted to believe that. He knew that he had to forgive himself, concentrate on Charlie. He took his father's hand, gave it a squeeze. They _all_ did.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"If I could speak with the family, please?"

Colby and Megan got to their feet, but Alan reached up for Megan's hand and pulled her back down. "I'd like them to stay," he said to the doctor, and Don nodded his affirmaion. "Is that all right?"

"Not really hospital policy," he answered, smiling a little, "but I can't really help it if someone else in the waiting area overhears me, now, can I?"

Colby offered the doctor the chair he had just vacated, and it was accepted gratefully. The doctor looked at Alan. "This type of wound is typically referred to as a 'graze' — the bullet actually cuts a path through the surface of the body…in this case, the temple…but does not actually lodge within the body."

"We found the bullet in the wall," Colby said again.

The doctor nodded. "We have done a CT scan to make sure there is no bleeding or bruising of the brain, and it looks good. We'll do another tomorrow. Your son has a serious, Grade 3 concussion. He is still unconscious, and likely will remain so for several hours. When he does wake up, there will be dizziness, nausea, likely some amnesia of the hours leading up to the incident. That memory may be recovered, and may not. And of course, he'll have an enormous headache. He could be dealing with ongoing headaches for months. He'll be groggy, and dazed. Recovery from traumatic brain injury can be very slow, and proper rest and nutrition are imperative. He will be here with us several days."

Alan took a breath, looked at Don. "He's alive."

"Dad…"

"There's more." The doctor's voice interrupted them. "I understand that this wound was self-inflicted?"

"No," started Don, and felt Megan looking at him. "I mean, yes. Both. The shot itself, I think I scared him, I yelled at him, he jerked…it just went off. But he took the gun out of the safe, he had it with him, it was in his hands. Obviously, none of that was accidental."

"Has he seemed depressed, recently?"

This time Alan answered. "We were going to talk to him tonight, ask him if he needed some help…he's had an extremely difficult time dealing with the loss of two close friends…"

"and Mom," Don said softly. Alan looked at him, but Don looked at the doctor. "Our mother died about three years ago, after a long and ugly battle with cancer. Charlie never really dealt with that, and I think when Sam and Jenna died, too, a lot of unresolved grief just overwhelmed him." Suddenly, Don stood up, put his hand to his head. "Damn," he said angrily. "It's so easy to see, now."

"Traumatic loss can trigger serious depressions," the doctor agreed. "While he is with us, after he regains consciousness, one of our staff psychiatrists will evaluate your son's situation and devise a treatment plan." He looked directly at Alan, then up to Don. "80 percent of the people treated for depression respond positively," he said, "and it doesn't have to mean a lifetime of disability. The psychiatrist will be able to provide more specific details for Charlie's case, but this episode being induced by traumatic events, that encourages me. Behavioral therapy — showing Charlie other solutions and new ways to think about himself, and what happens around him — should be very effective."

Alan sagged a little in his chair. "Can we see him?"

The doctor looked at his watch. "It will take a little time to get him settled in a bed upstairs, and then he'll probably remain unconscious at least through the night. You should go home, get some rest yourselves. The hard part is still coming, for Charlie. He'll need you both at your best."

Don frowned. "I've left him alone too much already."

The doctor stood to end the conversation. "He's not alone, Mr. Eppes, we're taking good care of him. We have all your contact numbers." He indicated Alan with his eyes. "Your job tonight is to take care of your father."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Someone was making too much noise. It was waking him up. Moaning. He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but then it all started spinning, inside his closed eyelids, and someone else reached down through his throat and dragged his stomach back through his larynx, pulled it inside out up into his mouth and he started bubbling. Disembodied hands pushed at him, forced him onto his side, and his head turned again, causing more bubbling. The moaning had turned to retching now, and he felt badly for whoever that was, even while he wished they would shut up._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don sank onto the chair he had just vacated. "Who knew you could throw up in your sleep?"

Alan continued to stand, bathing Charlie's face with a cool washcloth. "Any parent," he answered. "You both used to do it, all the time." He smiled fondly at Don over the bed rails. "You'd tell your mother you had a stomachache, and she would sing you to sleep. But when you were really sick — not just trying to get her to sing to you — you would toss, and turn, and eventually the motion would cause a little…action." He took the cloth away, looked back at Charlie. "Of course, you'd wake up in the middle of it."

"I think I did see him try to move his head, before…he'll wake up soon, Dad."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_The moaning had woken him up, again, but there was someone running a jackhammer in his head, so he was surprised he heard it. He wouldn't turn his head, again, he didn't like bubbling. He wished he could remember how to open his eyes. Maybe he could see who it was. When he quit trying, his eyes popped open on their own accord, and he had to squint against the light. That didn't work very well, either, though, because there were floating heads all around him, coming closer, drawing away, all fuzzy. Too many. Swimming in the air. Funny colors. He squeezed his eyes shut then, because he felt the bubbling in his mouth, and he was afraid the hands would come after him again. He couldn't make the bubbling stop, and now he heard the retching again, the hands moved him._

_His brain made a connection._

_Was that him? Was he the one moaning, the one retching?_

_He didn't care. He just wished it would stop._

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"He opened his eyes, that time."

Alan looked at the clock over the door. "But it's been almost 18 hours. They'll make us leave again. What if he gets sick when there's no one to help him?"

"We'll stay, then. All night, if we have to."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_That was his brother. Asleep in the chair._

_That was his father, head on the bed, arm stretched out to…_

_That was his hand. His father was holding his hand._

_That was all good. The moaning had stopped. That was even better. The jackhammer was still there. That was too bad._

_Was it dim, wherever they were? The light didn't seem as bright._

_He tried an experiment. He wiggled his fingers, inside his father's hand. Alan's head shot off the bed, frantic eyes locked with his own._

"_Charlie…" It was a whisper. He thought it was a whisper, he couldn't hear it very well._

_He tried another experiment. His voice didn't seem to be working, but he managed a smile._

_Ah._

_That was his father's hand, leaving his, brushing his face, now. Pushing hair out of one eye. Gently massaging his forehead, persuading the jackhammer to back off a little._

_He could feel his eyes close, feel himself relaxing into sleep again…but it was wrong, something was wrong. He wanted to stay awake long enough to know why._

_Why did he feel his father's tears, dropping onto his face?_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The third day Charlie was in the hospital, a Sunday, Megan and Colby met Larry and Amita at the Eppes house. Colby had already moved the desk, and all the papers and books he could find in Charlie's room, out into the hallway. The afternoon before, so that the professors wouldn't have to see it, he and David had borrowed a pick-up, and dragged the blood-stained mattress and box springs down the stairs, out to the landfill. Today, David and his wife would shop for replacements.

Larry and Amita sat in the hallway, poring over Charlie's papers, trying to devine or devise some sort of system. Megan was in the bedroom, taping off the baseboards, the closet, the door and window frames. Colby was in the backyard, near the koi pond, sandpapering blood off Charlie's bed frame, so that he could paint it. Later, he would help Megan paint the room. While it all dried, he would assemble the free-standing bookcases. Hopefully David would be here by then. Or maybe Larry understood in whatever language the assembly instructions had been written.

Megan popped the lid off the can of paint. Yesterday, while Colby and David were dealing with the bed, she had applied primer to the wall. She wanted to make sure the sunny yellow covered the blood. She was used to blood. She didn't want Larry and Amita to see it, today.

She was used to blood.

Just not Charlie's blood.

They were shell-shocked, all of them. The "hardened" FBI agents still understood family — they would feel for their team leader, even if it hadn't felt like Charlie was one of them, too. Larry had known Charlie for years — he was one of Charlie's professors when the young genius had come to college as a student, and now he was one of Charlie's colleagues as they both came to college as teachers. Amita had known him a shorter period of time, but her admiration for him as a mentor, as a man…her feelings for him ran deeper than even she acknowledged.

As the day progressed, they helped each other begin the process of healing. Colby recalled the story Don had told him about Charlie, who was afraid of needles, passing out at a flu shot clinic. Megan remembered the "vacation" he and Don had worked so hard for, just a few months ago, when Charlie had come back with everything from a broken foot to a black eye. Larry had the misfortune of being one of the people who had tried to teach 16-year-old Charlie to drive, and his recitation of the ensuing comedy of errors soon had Amita in tears. Her friend sat beside her on the floor, passed her another paper for her stack on cognitive emergence, and took the opportunity to smile, briefly rub her hand. The tone of the afternoon became protective. They created reasons to touch each other, silently exchange a smile.

After David and Colby took the new mattress and box springs out of the borrowed pick-up, he helped with the shelves, installed the blinds his wife had chosen for the window, hung the valance she had sewn last night. With all of them working together, it wasn't even dark yet as they began to re-load the room. When it was over, and they had cleaned up, they found they weren't ready to give up the comfort of each other. They sat in the Eppes back yard, and watched the sun set. For the most part, they were silent.

"It will come up again," Megan suddenly said in the dark. "The sun will shine again."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don looked at his brother. The brown eyes were finally really open, and Charlie had been able to speak some, but it was obviously painful. Still, he wanted to do this while their father was out of the room. Don had convinced him to take a break, at least go to the cafeteria for coffee. "Charlie…what's the last thing you remember?"

His brother closed his eyes. "Lunch. With Colby." He opened them again. "I don't even remember my afternoon classes."

Don nodded. "That's ok. The doctor said that would happen."

Charlie didn't look reassured. "Why won't anyone tell me what happened?" He shifted a little in the bed, involuntarily moaned and closed his eyes again as the wave of dizziness threatened to pull him back under. All too soon, he was looking at Don once more. "Dad said I hurt my head. I have a concussion." He tried to raise his hand toward his temple, but it fell back to the bed weakly even before Don could grab it. "How? When?"

Charlie's agitation was concerning Don. "Don't worry about that, now. You're in the hospital, we're with you, it's going to be all right. Let yourself get some more rest."

"Everyone seems so sad," Charlie murmured, "everything is so mixed up." He raised his eyes from the bed to look at Don again. "I don't know what I did wrong." His voice took on a plea. "Please tell me. I'll fix it. I'm sorry." He was thrashing by now, unable to stop the pain in the head, unable to distinguish it from the pain in his heart, and Don stood to touch Charlie's face.

"Shh. Relax. Listen to me, Charlie. Everything will be all right." His voice was quiet, his hand brushed away the tears. "Trust me, Charlie, you'll be fine." He kept talking until his brother fell asleep.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

That evening, after over 24 hours of bedside vigil and sleeping in hospital chairs, he finally convinced his father to let him take him home. "Remember what the doctor said, that first night," Don reminded Alan. "We need to take care of ourselves now, so that we can take care of Charlie later."

When he pulled the SUV into the driveway, Alan still seemed reluctant.

"I'll stay tonight, if you want."

Alan ran a hand over his face. "It's not that I'm afraid, you understand. I just need to take care of someone. Make someone breakfast. Preferably a son. "

"I know, Dad." Don swallowed, decided that if nothing else, he would learn some kind of openness and honesty from all this. "Maybe I need to be taken care of, too. By my father."

Exhausted, the two headed immediately up the stairs, hoping they could sleep. Charlie's door stood halfway open, and the smell of paint assailed them. Don approached it slowly, swung the door wide, saw the room cleaner and neater than he ever had. His eyes wandered to where the blood should be.

"I didn't even think," said his father, behind his shoulder. "I didn't even think that we should do this. That we couldn't bring him home to…that."

"This is amazing," Don said. "Who did all this?"

There was silence for a while.

"People who love us," Alan finally answered. "People who love Charlie."

They stood there, in the open door, and let the fragrance of love surround them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Charlie was miserable, sitting up in this chair. He was pretty miserable lying down, too, but his head hurt so much now, he was having trouble concentrating on what this newest doctor sitting across from him was saying. He tried to focus. "I'm sorry. You're?"

"Dr. Landon. I'm a staff psychiatrist here at the hospital."

A psychiatrist? "How can I help you?"

Dr. Landon smiled. "That's usually my line." He waited until Charlie attempted to return his smile, then looked down at the file in his lap. "I've talked to your family, and some of your friends. I understand you have your Ph.D in applied mathematics, and teach at Cal Sci?"

"Yes…"

"I could have used your help during med school. Math has never been my best subject. How has it been going lately, teaching?"

Charlie closed his eyes. His head would fall off soon. He hoped. "Okay."

"Your colleagues tell me that you've been a little stressed and unprepared, and you've been missing some classes."

Charlie opened his eyes again. Colleagues? Larry? Amita? Who? "I haven't been feeling well. And I…I got behind. I can't seem to catch up."

"Do you have trouble concentrating?"

"Right now?"

Dr, Landon allowed a brief smile. "Before the hospital. Why are you behind in your work?"

"I'm tired. First I couldn't sleep, then I couldn't stop. When I try to work…" Charlie tried to think. "It's all mixed up, sometimes. It all runs together."

"You said, 'first I couldn't sleep'. When was 'first'?"

Charlie was getting tired of this. "If you talked to my family, I'm sure my Dad told you that."

"He told me about your friends. He also told me that you don't eat well."

Charlie closed his eyes again. "I'm tired."

"We're almost done, for today. Dr. Eppes, have you been preoccupied with death?"

The eyes opened again, wary. "What do you mean?"

"How much do you think about it?"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside his bed. "I don't know. I think about my friends, I dream about…about my mother, again…I worry about my brother. He's an FBI agent." He shifted again. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"

Charlie looked at the doctor. He whispered. "What?"

"Have you ever planned how that might occur?"

Charlie visibly paled. "What did I do?"

"Have you ever planned…"

Charlie swallowed. "Yes."

"How?"

"Th…Th…Th" Charlie was hiccupping, and the sound was echoing through his head like a gunshot.

Like a gunshot.

"We have a gun." He tried to breathe around the hiccups. "G-d. I must have done it."

Dr. Landon waited for the hiccups to slow down. "Can you identify what you feel right now?"

Charlie didn't know when he started crying, but something was dripping off his chin. "Afraid," he finally said. "How could I have done that?"

"How could you have done what?"

"Killed him. Sam. It's not just signing a paper, it's not."

Charlie tried to sit up a little straighter. "It's wrong, it's wrong for me to want what I took from him, isn't it? I shouldn't be happy I screwed up somehow." He felt bile rise up. "I'm going to be sick."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don and Alan stood in the hallway, and waited.

"This is taking a long time," Don said. "Is this taking a long time?"

Before Alan could answer a nurse with a syringe brushed past them, entered Charlie's room. He started to follow her but she turned in the doorway. "Dr. Landon will be right with you," she said, closing the door in his face, and Alan had no choice. Again.

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, started remembering Charlie's birthdays. He tried to remember what he and Margaret had done for a party each year, the gifts his son had wanted, the cake fights he always got into with Don…Charlie was nine years old again before Dr. Landon exited his room, and motioned for them to follow him down the hall to his office.

"Please, sit," he said, placing a file on his desk. He walked to the corner of the office, where several chairs were placed together, picked one for himself. He waited for Don and Alan to sit down. "Charlie's resting, right now. This was very difficult for him. I gave him a mild sedative, and the nurse is cleaning him up and getting him back to bed."

"Cleaning him up?" Don must not understand psychiatry.

"He was ill. I believe it was caused by a combination of the emotional impact of the interview and the physical trauma he still suffers from the concussion."

"Did he remember?"

"Not exactly. I'm afraid I can't really tell you the specifics of our conversation. I will see Charlie again tomorrow, and discuss treatment options with him. I'm going to start him on an antidepressant medication. At this point, I don't anticipate this being a long-term solution. I'm hoping medication can provide a short-term reduction in depressive symptoms while he is learning, through cognitive and behavioral therapy, other solutions to problems, different ways to view himself, and the world around him."

Alan hadn't spoken yet, and Dr. Landon looked directly at him. "I don't want to negate the seriousness of Charlie's illness, of what happened. But I actually found our conversation very encouraging."

He let Alan sit with that for a moment. "Dr. Steen, Charlie's neurologist, is anticipating a release date of Wednesday, if I concur. I want to talk to Charlie one more time before I do that. I'll ask him to verbally agree to a 'no-harm contract' with me; he will agree not to harm himself, for a specific, brief time. Until he has chosen a therapist to work with, I will continue to renew those contracts with him, over the telephone if necessary. We'll see how much activity his head injury allows him; it may be difficult for him, physically, but I want him in therapy as soon as possible. We'll set up an appointment for him with someone on Monday, but if it's not a good match for him, there will be several other referrals available. It's important to connect with a therapist, feel comfortable and safe there."

Alan finally spoke. "I'd like to see him."

"As I said, I had to give him a mild sedative, and he's had a difficult time." Dr. Landon looked at his watch. "It's almost noon. Why don't you wait for evening visiting hours?" He smiled to ease the sting. "I know this must be difficult. But he really will sleep all afternoon."

Don started to stand up, but the doctor put his hand up. "One more thing, please. I mentioned the antidepressant. It's important to remember that it can take two weeks to a month for enough medication to enter the system for it to do its job effectively. This is one reason the no-harm contracts, even though they may sound silly, are so important. You'll need to be diligent, during this time. Keep your home safe, express your care, your love, verbally. Make sure Charlie knows how important he is to your family."

"I don't think it sounds silly," said Alan quietly. "I don't think it sounds silly at all."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Charlie opened his eyes. After taking a moment to focus, he could see his father in the chair beside the bed. He wasn't reading. He wasn't doing a crossword puzzle. He was just sitting there, aging five years with every bit of focus Charlie's eyes regained. He looked so sad._

_Charlie saw Don come into his line of sight. He walked up his father, put a hand on his shoulder. Alan smiled and covered it with his own. Don's own shoulders slumped, like they did during a difficult case that he couldn't get away from, like they did for a long time after their mother died._

_This was all his fault._

_It hurt his head to do it, but he didn't care. Charlie rolled over on his side, tried to curl into himself. "You should leave me alone," he whispered._

_Alan stood, walked to his son's side. His hand brushed at the curls. "I saw your mother," he said, and both of his sons looked at him. "I saw her that night. She has never left you. She never will. Neither will I. Neither will your brother. What beats in our chests are just four chambers of the same heart, we are each other."_

_Charlie could feel that Don was behind him, now, hand on his arm. His father was still talking. Or maybe he was crying._

"_We need you, here with us. We want you, here with us. Please, Charlie. Please stay."_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Don helped his brother settle on the couch. The walk from the SUV in the driveway had been long and silent, Charlie leaning into him a little more with each step. They could save the trip upstairs for later. "What do you need?", he asked. "Your pillow? Would that be more comfortable? Are you cold? I could get another blanket. Maybe you should have something to eat. It's nearly lunchtime." He heard Alan laugh quietly behind him, and turned to glare at him. His father held up his hands in mock surrender.

"You're not leaving anything for me," he protested.

Don turned back to Charlie. He was smiling too. Couldn't argue with that. Don grinned.

"You should get back to work," Charlie said. "I've kept you too long already."

Don stopped grinning and sat down next to Charlie on the couch. "That's not true. Maybe I act like it, sometimes…" he looked up at his father. "Okay, I know I act like it, a lot." He looked at Charlie. "But you know I love you, right?"

He could see Charlie's eyes cloud before his brother turned away. "Still. Work is important."

Don looked at his father again, took a breath. "Actually, not so much."

Charlie turned his eyes back to him.

"I've taken a little leave time. I'll be staying here, for a while. I want to help. Drive you to appointments. Force you to watch _'Eight Men Out'_ again. Whatever."

Charlie's eyes flickered from Don to their father. "You don't trust me."

Don cursed under his breath. "Charlie, that's not it. You won't be cleared to drive for a while. You can barely walk on your own, yet. You still throw up on a regular basis."

Charlie looked stricken. "I'm too much for Dad."

Alan cleared his throat. "Stop that. Charles Edward. Stop that."

Charlie was a little taken aback. What was this, tough love?

"You are not 'too much' for me. But I do have my book club. When Don offered, I thought it would be nice for all of us to be together, at least for a few days."

Don offered? Charlie looked at him, noticed for the first time the jeans and t-shirt that signified a day off. The ever-present headache was clamoring for more attention, but Charlie had to do something to make things more normal. "I've been thinking," he said. "I could use someone to cut my toenails."

He heard Alan's soft snort even as he saw Don struggle with himself, look away from him. "I, uh, I, that is, Charlie, I…"

Charlie touched him on the arm. "Lighten up, Donnie."

Don hadn't heard _that_ name from Charlie in a while. He looked back at him, saw the hint of a tease in his eyes. "Okay," he said suddenly, standing. "I'll do that. Just let me go borrow the neighbor's chain saw."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don had watched Charlie struggle through lunch, force himself to eat half of the soup, half of the sandwich. It didn't seem entirely that it was appetite; Charlie's eyes were drooping, and he could see the lines of pain and fatigue in his face. "Let me help you upstairs," he finally said. "It will be more comfortable than taking a nap in minestrone."

Charlie lowered the spoon gratefully. "Okay. This has been harder than I anticipated."

"It's only your first day home, Charlie. If we can get you through it without barfing your guts up, let's consider it a success."

Alan saw Charlie's face at Don's words. "If you want to do that," he warned, "maybe we shouldn't talk about it?"

Don grimaced. "Right. Sorry." He stood and stepped over to Charlie's chair. "Ready?"

The brothers ascended the stairs, one at a time. Alan stood at the bottom, wanting to see Charlie's reaction. The doctor had said there might be things that triggered memories. While Don waited for Charlie to use the bathroom, he walked over to open Charlie's door and turn on the light. When he turned back around, his brother was coming toward him, one hand on the wall for balance.

"Wait, I was going to help," Don said, but Charlie was even with him already, and he was looking through his bedroom door. He stood silently, for what seemed like five minutes.

"Did I redecorate?" His voice offered no clues.

Don pushed the door open further, so that they could walk through together. "Not really. We're not sure who did this, although I keep noticing glances between…well, between everybody. The team, Larry, Amita…nobody's confessing, though. I'll have to book an interrogation room."

He knew he was going to have to stop talking eventually, they were standing by the bed. This was supposed to have been the purpose of coming up here. Shut up, Don.

Charlie sagged a little against him, reached out to touch the down comforter he had never seen before.

"So. I did it here."

Don didn't say anything. He felt Charlie looking at him.

"I did it here."

"If this is too hard, we could switch rooms." It was all he could think of.

Charlie sighed. "No, it's okay. I don't remember it. It's probably harder for you."

Yeah. He hadn't been ready for that, either. Don cleared his throat. "I like the blinds. And the color on the walls. Even if I never would have picked it, myself."

Charlie looked. "A cheery choice," he said drily, and Don smiled. Charlie hated yellow.

"If you want, we can repaint it later. Paint fumes would be too much for your head right now, I think."

"This is too much for my heart," answered Charlie, and Don looked at him in concern. "That people would do this, I mean."

"Yeah. I know."

Charlie sank down on his new bed. "I feel like I'm in a hotel."

"Well, there's no maid here," said Alan from the doorway, "so I don't expect it will look this clean for long."

Charlie smiled, crawled carefully under the comforter, laid his aching head on the pillow. "No," he mused, closing his eyes, "I don't expect that it will."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15**

Amita stood, leaned over the table and closed the lap top. "It's been three hours," she said.

"What? Wait…" Charlie tried to open it again. "I just got started…"

This time she dragged the lap top over to her side of the table, quickly saving the open document and shutting down the system. "You know the deal. Three hours a day, and only on the days you don't see Dr. Sanderson." She shot him a look. "The time you spend working increases every week, just be patient." She reached for a stack of papers, pushed them across the table. "Here. These are graded. I think the two of us working together again on Saturday, we can get everything caught up."

Charlie accepted the papers. "That will be a relief." He looked at his friend. "I can't thank you enough for this, Amita."

She smiled. "I'm happy to help." She suddenly focused on the wall clock over Charlie's head. "I need to get going, though. One of those early departmental faculty meetings in the morning."

Charlie stood. "Let me walk you to your car."

Amita smiled again and leaned out of the dining room far enough to see Alan in the living room. "Good-night, Mr. Eppes! Thank you again for dinner."

He looked up from his book. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Amita. I'll see you Saturday?"

She nodded, felt Charlie's hand on her arm and let her guide them through the kitchen door.

Charlie helped Amita into the car, lifted a hand, then knocked on the window before she started backing away. After she lowered the window, he leaned in. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Remember when we were conducting that study to determine the detectable patterns to behavior as influenced by color?"

"I remember. I was considering including it in my thesis, but I didn't need it."

"Is it my memory, or did we discuss our own color preferences? Yours is green?"

Amita could see where this was going. "Um hmm…"

"So I did mention that I don't like yellow."

She laughed. "I couldn't bring myself to tell Megan. She seemed so fond of that color. And it's not egg-yolk yellow…it's a pastel. Try to think of it as 'cream on steriods'."

Charlie laughed. "I'll do that. I'm getting used to it, now."

"That reminds me. I wanted to borrow that book again, the one you let me borrow when I was working on my thesis?"

"Henderson's theory of binary entanglement reduction?"

She nodded.

"I'll look for it. I should have it for you next time."

Amita checked her rear view mirror. "Don's home. I'd better back out so he can get in the driveway. She turned back to Charlie, impulsively kissed his cheek. "I'll see you Saturday afternoon."

He waited in the driveway while his friend and his brother exchanged places. Don was smiling when he got out of the SUV. "What was that all about?"

Charlie was watching the last place he had seen Amita's car. "I'm not sure." He turned to Don. "You've been gone all afternoon. Back to work?"

"No, not officially. I had lunch with the team today, stayed a few hours to help them out on something. Then I went to a movie, actually."

"Good. You should do more for yourself." The two brothers started walking toward the kitchen door. "Take tomorrow. It's Friday. Dad will take me to my appointment, we'll probably have lunch afterwards, then I'll come back and sleep all afternoon, if it's another session like Tuesday's."

Don opened the door. "Hard to believe you're only going twice a week, now. And working at home."

Charlie hesitated. "Why is that hard to believe? Yesterday, when you went to your apartment to get some more clothes, and Dad was still after groceries…I was alone for 37 minutes."

Don wandered to the refrigerator to grab a beer, sat down at the table. "We're suffocating you."

Charlie joined him at the table. "A little bit. I just feel like you're waiting for me to break."

Don didn't answer.

"It's been over a month, Don. Dr. Sanderson and I are talking about my going back to Cal Sci full time in three weeks, when the new semester starts."

"Really? Are you ready for that?"

Charlie looked over Don's shoulder, "I said we're talking about it. Every day, I have so much more energy. I can't make this house my world forever."

"You can't push yourself too hard, either. You always have."

"No consulting. No research projects. At least for a while, until I see how it goes just to be working again. If I'm thinking of working again, you should be, too."

Don considered how to present his next statement, finally decided he might as well just say it. "Charlie…my job…an agent has to have his wits about him. His concentration can't be somewhere else, in the field. That's how accidents happen."

Charlie stiffened, and words poured out of him. "You're right. You shouldn't go back. Don't go back. It's not time to go back."

Don placed the bottle on the table. "Calm down, Charlie. I'm just telling you that so you will see that I take it seriously. I do everything I can to be responsible, and careful, for myself and other agents." He circled the bottle in the condensation on the table. "I wonder if we could make a contract."

"A what?"

"I could promise you that I will always view my job that way, that you can trust me to do it wisely…and you could promise me that if you see a pattern developing, that isn't safe for you, you'll do something about it. Tell me. Dad. Dr. Sanderson."

Charlie looked at Don, saw the sincerity in his eyes. "I think I could live with a contract like that."

Don smiled. "I'll count on that."

Charlie rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "You know all that energy I was talking about?"

"Still gotta take care of that head, Charlie."

Charlie pushed up from the table. "I'm going to find a book for Amita before I forget it, then I'm done for the day." He looked at Don. "So you're back to work Monday?"

"How did you know?"

Charlie smiled. "Just don't forget our contract. 'Night, Don."

Don swallowed some more beer as he watched Charlie head for the solarium. "Night, Bro."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie searched the shelves. He thought the book had a brown binding. Maybe it was in his room. No! There it was. He had grabbed the volume and turned to leave the solarium when he saw the picture, the one with the safe behind it. He stood and stared at it for a long time, long enough for Alan to find him, loosely holding the book.

"Charlie?"

He tore his eyes away from the picture. "I needed a book." He held up the evidence.

"You're all right, then?"

Don had wandered up behind his father, and they were both staring at him. He looked at the two of them, concern on their faces, and decided he couldn't tell them that he had remembered. Especially Don. It might make them both feel better to know that he had decided not to do it, at the last second, but it would also bring Don guilt. Charlie knew what guilt could do to a person. He was pretty sure Don had felt guilt already, but he hoped that staying at the house, helping Charlie, putting his own life on hold for the last month, he hoped all that had helped relieve him.

But he did know what guilt could do. He knew what hiding could do. He needed to find a way to make sure Don was all right.

"I…uh…I guess I was just thinking. I never apologized to you."

"Charlie," protested Don, "you don't need to apologize…"

Charlie held his brother's eyes. "If you had a root canal, it wouldn't be my fault, but I would still be sorry for your pain."

Alan's eyes filled, and he looked away briefly. "We appreciate that, Charlie. We understand that."

"Do you?" Charlie was still looking at Don. "Do you understand that it wasn't something you did, or didn't do?"

Don tried to break the stare, found that he couldn't. "I…you don't remember it all, Charlie…"

"I remember enough. I remember who you are. I remember that you would never hurt me. I remember what's important."

"Good," Don whispered, "good." He cleared his throat. "Let's add that to the contract. We'll both always remember what's important."


	17. Chapter 17

**Epilogue**

The sun was setting on the river. Still swollen from winter snowmelt and spring rains, it rain swiftly around the stilled boat. Charlie stood near the stern, watching the waters take them. The air was orange, like a campfire.

When he was ready, he made his way carefully back to his seat next to Don. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Wouldn't miss it. Did we get to this part of the river, last year?"

Charlie smiled as the boat ran smoothly toward its dock. "No. We mostly only got to the medical clinic."

Don laughed. "Do you feel like baking a cake?"

"What?"

"Dad told me you baked four cakes a couple of nights before we left. Took one to school, sent one to the senior center with him, gave two to neighbors."

"I've found it relaxing. And what about the brownies?"

"What brownies?"

"I made brownies that night, too. I took them to your office the next day, on my way to school."

"You did?"

"Yeah. You weren't in yet, but I gave them to Colby."

Don groaned. "You even have to ask?"

Charlie snickered beside him, shivered a little. "Next time I need some baking therapy, I'll be sure you're directly involved."

"I'd appreciate that."

The two were silent for a time.

"They're home, now," Charlie finally said. "The river was always their home. It feels…it feels finished."

"You did right by them. This was a good idea."

"When we get back to the motel, we'll call Dad."

"Okay. Then, I have an idea."

"What?"

"Neither of us is flying the plane, tomorrow. Let's go have a drink. Or I'll have a drink and you'll watch, like usual. Either way, it's time to renew our contract, I think."

"Why?"

Don pressed his shoulder harder into Charlie's. "Because we're here. Because we're together. Because I want to."

"Okay," Charlie finally agreed. "But we renew it all."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll be careful, I'll be careful — and we'll both always remember what's important."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

FINIS 

**A/N: A dark tale, but one that I hope shows that there is light even in the darkness, for us all.**


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